


time ain't no reason

by flowermasters



Category: Luke Cage (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Choking, Friends With Benefits, Internalized Homophobia, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Prison Sex, shadyche, with feelings because um hello
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-04 23:18:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15157583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters
Summary: It's their last night together in Seagate; better make it a good one.





	time ain't no reason

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hurting, y’all.
> 
> Warnings for: Shades/Comanche, prison sex, choking because Shades is a big ole sub, some minor internalized homophobia.

Keys jingle in the hallway; Comanche waits till the sound passes as the guard moves on before he rolls over in bed again, grunting under his breath.

“Would you knock that shit off,” Shades says politely from below. Usually he’d just kick the springs above him. Hard as shit, right through the thin-ass prison mattress and into Che’s spine. He’s never taken kindly to the bottom bunk, but Comanche is bigger than him, always has been, and any scuffle between the two of them always ends in laughter, anyway.

“Can’t sleep,” Comanche says. Keeps his voice low, although nobody’s going to say shit to him about it being lights out.

“Do some push-ups or something.”

“That won’t keep you up, princess?”

“You’re the one on some Princess and the Pea shit right now, Che.”

Comanche snorts. He hears the faint sound of movement from below, feels a gentle tremor in the bunk as Shades shifts positions. Neither one of them can stand to sleep under the scratchy sheets on a night like this; the air is hot and still. Shades probably has his back against the cinderblocks, the only cool surface available to him.

“Well,” Shades says, after a pause. He speaks dryly, like he doesn’t know how much more obvious he can be. “What can we do about it.”

Comanche sits up as best he can, though he can’t rise up fully without banging his head against the ceiling. Slipping out of bed and dropping to the floor with a dull thud is easy, too easy, although the landing does make pain radiate up to his knees. He folds himself down into Shades’s bunk, though it’s much too small for two. In the cramped space, with Shades’s body heat already warming the mattress, it’s hard to breathe. Doesn’t matter; they won’t be here long.

It’s so dark neither one of them can see more than a few inches in front of their face, but Comanche can both feel and sort of see it when Shades slides a hand under the pillow, coming up with a small pot of Vaseline. “Can’t say I never did anything for you.”

“Never would,” Comanche points out, their fingers brushing as Shades hands over the tin.

Some don’t bother to be quiet about this—prison rules, after all—but they have to be. It has to be fast and quiet, but that’s the good thing about doing this with Shades; they’re both men, they can get it done quick, no need to screw around. Shades turns over onto his front, rustles with his pants, then goes still. Comanche doesn’t have to be able to see to coat his fingers and press them in, getting Shades as slick and loose as he can. Shades doesn’t let him do this often, but he’ll be pissy for days if it hurts too bad; then Che remembers that Shades won’t be around to be mad, because come tomorrow morning he’ll be gone.

With that thought in mind, he keeps thrusting his fingers in, then crooks them hard. Shades shifts his weight on his elbows. “Cut that shit out.”

Comanche grabs Shades by the back of the neck with his free hand, holding him in place like an unruly dog. “You’re a free man tomorrow,” Comanche mutters. “Gonna give you one for the road, you know?”  

Shades likes this kind of shit, being pushed around, told what to do; he’s never said so, but he’s never fought it, either, and that speaks louder than words. He always looks a little sleepy-eyed when Che roughs him up, all satisfied. No shades to cover that, at least not in Seagate.

Comanche pulls his fingers out, slicks himself, and pushes in, all business now. Shades stays still, head bowed. They haven’t got long. Che’s going to be a one man show by tomorrow; better not to give the guards any ideas.

Che can only make short, shunting movements, but he puts force behind it, enough to make them both rock forwards and back on the bunk. The bedframe creaks, but not too bad. “Does it hurt?” he grits out near Shades’s ear.

Shades doesn’t answer. It was a real question, although if Shades wants to be like that, Comanche can play ball. He gives Shades a hard shake by the neck, tightens his grip.

“No,” Shades answers, voice hoarse. His head is bowed so low he’s speaking almost into the pillow. “Doesn’t hurt.”

“Good,” Comanche breathes back, unable to stop himself now. “Gonna miss this dick, huh.”

Again, Shades doesn’t answer, and this time Comanche lets his hand slide around from the back of his neck to his throat, to squeeze. Shades doesn’t strangle easy, but Comanche feels every breath in and out through his windpipe, strained and short. “Yeah,” he says finally.

“Say you’re gonna miss it.”

Shades makes a weird noise, a choked-off huff of laughter. Comanche feels him shift, lifting off one elbow to reach down, but Comanche gives another squeeze and he knocks that shit off quick. Comanche takes his free hand from the wall where it’s braced and takes Shades in hand himself. He likes to touch Shades in a way he shouldn’t, a way that takes this far away from businesslike or blowing off steam; he always has. He’s made his peace with that, at least for moments like this.

Now Shades swallows. “Gonna miss it.”

Comanche rewards him, twists his hand the way Shades likes, grip tight. With his other hand, he squeezes Shades’s throat again. Shades never makes any real noise, but like this, Comanche can hear and feel the one strangled, raspy breath he takes as he comes.  

From there it’s a mad dash to the finish line, working his hips harder and faster, chasing it. Che shoves Shades forward into the mattress with a grunt as he comes. For a moment he can’t think of anything but the thud of his heartbeat in his ears and the rhythm of Shades’s pulse under his thumb. He’s barely exerting pressure now, just hanging on, and when the heat and sweat between them becomes unbearable, he lets go.

He doesn’t leave the bunk just yet, though, and Shades doesn’t kick him out. They both rustle about for a few seconds, wiping at sticky spots and adjusting fabric, and then go still, sitting together in silence. Shades might gripe soon about being covered in jizz, or tell him to get the fuck out, but for now he says nothing. Their shoulders brush like they have a thousand times before over the years, crammed together on buses and in cars, working and just hanging out, Hernan and Darius, Shades and Che.

After a moment, Comanche lifts his hand, brings it to the back of Shades’s neck. He doesn’t grip it like before, just lets it rest there. Soft like he could only ever be for Shades. “Shit’s gonna be hard in here without you, B,” Comanche says finally, his voice low. “You know?”

Shades turns his head, maybe trying to look at him in the darkness. He doesn’t question this weakness, but he doesn’t exactly entertain it, either. “You’ll get through it,” he says. “And you’ll know where to find me when you do.”

Comanche swallows, nods, squeezes Shades’s neck fondly one last time. Somewhere down the hall, keys jingle. It doesn’t matter now. Tomorrow Shades will be a free man, and sooner or later Che will follow him, like always.


End file.
